


Card Me

by burlesquecomposer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Competent Driver Stiles, M/M, Police Officer Derek, Police Officer Erica Reyes, Police Officer Vernon Boyd, Scott is a Bad Friend, Stiles meets Derek in mortifying circumstances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burlesquecomposer/pseuds/burlesquecomposer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles plans on getting hammered on the night of his 21st birthday but finds himself in trouble before he can get so much as a drop of alcohol into his system. Officer Hale comes to his rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Card Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfinglet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinglet/gifts).



At 11:57pm, Stiles pulls into the lot of the BevMo and grins to himself. Quickly pumping a fist in the air just for the fun of no one around, he kicks out of the Jeep (Roscoe, his only friend after Scott ditched him for work and sleep) and runs inside. 

The automatic doors slide open and it’s like the red and white pearly gates have opened the doors to sweet, sweet opportunity via potential alcoholism. 

Stiles isn't at all new to alcohol, god no. He's stolen a glass or two from his dad from time to time when he falls asleep at the table over a case. Sometimes he swipes a bottle of Jack Daniels and takes Scott out to get drunk, though it usually involves Stiles getting the most drunk while Scott pretends to laugh at his shitty jokes. 

Scott bailed on him tonight – screw him for turning 21 before Stiles – in favor of finishing up the homework he should have done over spring break. It’s a waste, really, because Scott doesn’t get very excited about alcohol anyway. 

But Stiles is here now, all by himself, ready to get shitfaced. Except this time he can do it legally. 

Stiles strolls happily into the BevMo and takes only a few minutes to grab what he wants: a 6-pack of Blue Moon for the sake of irony and a bottle of the best tequila he can afford. He’s already done the studies, tested out the small variety in Dad’s secret stash to determine what he’ll like, and catalogued where the good drinks are shelved in the store. He can hardly contain his excitement as he brings his basket up to the register. 

“That’ll be $32.67.” 

Stiles’ fingers are deep into his wallet when he pauses and frowns directly at the cashier. 

“You’re not gonna card me?” 

The cashier shrugs. His name tag reads “Isaac”. Dark bags sit heavy under his eyes, serving as a testament to the horrendous boredom of the night shift. “You look old enough,” he says. 

“C’mon dude, card me.” 

“$32.67, all right? You’re holding up the line.” 

“There _is_ no line. Just card me.” 

The cashier takes a deep, deep breath. “Fine. ID?” 

Stiles preens and presents his ID card. The cashier studies it, then nods, though Stiles can’t tell if his expression is mildly impressed or if Isaac is simply perpetually disinterested in life and all it has to offer, because it doesn't change in the slightest. 

“Ah, so that’s why.” 

“Yeah, that’s why,” Stiles huffs a little. 

After paying, he takes his bottles with a bit of angry emphasis and heads back out to the Jeep, evading the rain that must have started a mere few minutes ago. He places his new potable friends in the front seat, buckles them in just in case. 

“It’s okay, pretties, we’ll be home soon.” 

Except he doesn’t get home soon. On the way through town, his tires slip and he hydroplanes in a half circle. Stiles, who all too easily panics, screams like a 5-year-old and forgets everything he was ever taught about how to straighten out and manages to drive over the median. 

Talk about luck. 

“Shit,” Stiles says when he can finally breathe, hitting his hand against the wheel. The Jeep is still alive by some miracle, and once the skidding noise has died down, he's greeted with prominent silence and Andrew Volpe's soothing voice on the radio. He presses the gas pedal. Roscoe objects to the whole thing. 

“What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

He tries several times with no success. Finally, in the rain that has turned to pouring, Stiles emerges from his car and examines his situation. There’s no damage to the car itself, not like it would have showed amid all the other dents he’s late on getting fixed. And right there, up against the island, is a pothole, and right there, is his front left wheel embedded in it with no hope of budging on its own. 

Stiles directs a dramatic scream at the sky and hops back into his car. He needs help, and Scott’s not going to get him out of this one even though it’s all Scott’s fault for not coming. He calls the police station, prays to all the Gods above that he doesn’t get his dad because there’s only one way to make this absolutely mortifying. 

“Beacon Hills Police.” 

It’s a soft, gruff voice, but it’s not his dad’s. “Oh thank god. Uh, hi, I’m in a bit of a pickle. My car’s stuck and it’s kind of in a pothole and I can’t get it out.” 

“Where are you?” 

“Keller Avenue, uh... right outside the Chevron gas station.” 

“We’ll find you right away. Hang tight.” 

Stiles groans and spends the next ten minutes sending Scott a stream of texts that would make even Lydia feel a tiny bit guilty. He gets no reply – Scott either turned off his phone, lost it, or went to bed by now. In any case, it takes Stiles’ mind off things until the flashing red and blue lights appear in front of his windshield. One cop car, one pickup truck with a towing hook. 

By now, the rain has died down to a light sprinkle. Stiles pulls himself out of the Jeep and makes his way over to the first officer who comes up to him. He’s is much taller than Stiles, almost intimidating, with deep chestnut skin and round, full features. 

“Well,” he says — it’s not the voice Stiles heard on the phone, but it’s pleasant and accompanied by the tiniest of smiles — “you’d... be surprised how often this happens.” 

“Really?” 

“No, this is the first time I’ve seen this shit and it might be the funniest thing I’ve seen in a while.” 

“Congrats,” another officer, a pale blonde woman in kitten heels, pipes up as she comes closer. “You got Boyd to laugh. Now Derek owes me twenty bucks.” 

“Shut it, Reyes. Get the tow ready on the back,” a third officer with 5, no, 10 o’clock shadow says behind her. It’s the guy Stiles heard on the phone, but now that he’s got the face to match it with, he realizes that if frowns made noises, they would sound a lot like this officer’s voice. His half-beard is dark but well-kept and if God really exists He's probably proud of His work especially around Derek's hard jaw and divine cheekbones. 

“I’ll be waiting for my twenty,” Reyes retorts. But she rolls her eyes and listens, returning to the truck and pulling it around to the other side of the median. 

“I’m going to need your name and driver’s license,” the scruffy officer – Derek – says, pulling out a small notepad and pen. 

“Oh. Right.” Stiles runs to the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and pulls it out from his wallet. Not the card he wanted to be showing tonight. The two officers follow, standing outside and watching him through the rolled-down window. Boyd seems tired. Derek looks displeased with life in general. “Uh, Stiles Stilinski.” 

“You the Sheriff’s kid?” Derek asks, blinking owlishly at him before diverting his attention to the license. Green eyes. Stiles is doomed. 

“Yeah,” Boyd says, “I’ve seen him around sometimes. Derek’s new here, so he’s not yet used to the regulars.” He turns on a flashlight to help Derek see. 

“Gotcha,” Stiles says, winks at Boyd, and Boyd’s slight smile fades like he’s been shot. Stiles withers. 

“Your birthday’s tonight?” Derek asks, examining his card and writing down information. 

Stiles gives an awkward grin. “Yeah. Kinda.” 

Boyd brings his flashlight beam to the passenger’s seat. “Twenty-first?” 

“Were you drinking at the time of the accident?” Derek asks. 

“No but I kinda wish I had been,” Stiles offers. “Much easier to explain shit like this if you’re drunk. But I was totally sober, so I’ve gotta chalk it up to crappy driving.” 

Derek pauses in his writing and actually _snorts_ , grinning amidst the stubble, probably. Boyd tells him not to tell Reyes that Derek laughed or he’ll owe her thirty, too. 

Stiles soon gets his license back and sheepishly places it back in his wallet just in time for his car to be jerked backwards. Reyes already got the tow truck hooked up and starts to reel him in with Stiles still inside. Stiles places a protective hand over the booze in the front seat and clenches his eyes to brace for the impact of making it over the median. 

Derek approaches the window, bracing his forearms on the sill, and peers inside. “You good?” 

“Peaches and cream.” 

“You’re fine. Any car damage?” 

“Don’t think so. Thanks, man,” Stiles says, but before he can leave it at that, the verbal diarrhea kicks in. “S’really nice for you guys to come out and help me, also please don’t tell my dad about this. I was expecting a situation of ultra embarrassment that he’d never let me forget but instead I got the Hot Cops which kind of made my night a little better after my best friend ditched me for a history paper, so thanks.” 

Derek quirks a thick, dark eyebrow.

 “Hot Cops?”

 “Oh my god. Did I say that?”

 “Yep.”

 “N-no... No I didn’t.”

 “Yes you did.”

 “It’s raining, you misheard.”

 “It’s barely sprinkling,” Boyd says, “and I heard it too.”

 “He’s not wrong,” Reyes points out.

 “Christ, I take back all the thank you’s, you guys suck. And if you say that stuff around my dad, I’ll skin you.”

 “Ooh,” Reyes says, “great idea.”

 She and Boyd head back to the police car. Derek lingers with this brooding expression on his face that Stiles can’t pinpoint.

 “What,” he says, “want to give me a ticket?”

 “For hydroplaning? You’re fine.” 

“Fine? Or fined?” 

“Fine,” Derek says, with some emphasis. 

Stiles drums his fingers on the wheel and clicks his tongue. There's a pickup line in there somewhere but he won't be the first to say it. 

“Hey, well, better get home and drink something before I pass out or this whole mission was for nothing.” Stiles turns on the Jeep, relieved that it’s working still. 

“Yeah,” Derek replies. "Have fun." 

Stiles has his foot on the pedal when Derek says, “Wait.” 

The Jeep lurches a little. “Yeah?” 

Derek shrugs. Then raises both eyebrows and looks everywhere but right in Stiles’ eyes. “Sorry. Uh. See you at the station.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, then smiles. “See you at the station, Hot Cop. Wear some shorts next time and maybe I’ll share a drink with you.” 

Derek flashes a toothy grin and Stiles might have collapsed from weak knees if he wasn’t already sitting down. 

“Can’t promise I will or I won’t, but there’s no telling what I might do for a Heineken.” 

Stiles laughs, waves, and rolls his window up before turning out into the empty street and hauling ass back home. His face is red when he glances at himself in the rearview mirror. _Jesus. Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ._ Stiles flirts and for the first time in probably ever someone actually flirts back. This never happens. This is monumental. This is something he needs to tell everyone in his contacts, yes, at 1:30 in the morning, holed up in his bedroom after two beers and a burning shot of tequila like the smart 21-year-old he is. 

He texts Scott first. 

[thnks dude, an i rly mean it ths timee. Your abbandodnment might get me lllaaaaiidd.] 

Scott says [cool] and gives him tips to soothe a hangover. 

A week later, Stiles gets laid. 

By a hot cop. 

Wearing shorts. 

In the back of a police car. 

Maybe.


End file.
